


Might Take a Fire to Kill It

by larkscape



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crack, Dream Logic, Humor, M/M, Yuri Plisetsky and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Sexy Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: Yuri drops her to the ground and suddenly it’s not his cat, it’s JJ in front of him. On all fours, showing off his stupid fucking tattoo and wearing Sofya’s collar.“Yuri,” says JJ, low and warm.“Get the fuck away from me,” says Yuri.(Or: Five times Yuri Plisetsky wanted to strangle his own subconscious, and one time it wasn’t so awful after all.)





	Might Take a Fire to Kill It

**Author's Note:**

> To all the nonnies who egged me on: thank you, and you have only yourselves to blame. :D
> 
> Warnings for: zombies, wings. The dream surrealism and Yuri's foul mouth should go without saying, but I'll mention them anyway. Title from Beck's _Black Tambourine._

1.

“Don’t forget your jacket,” says Grandpa. He offers Sofya with both hands, holding her under the armpits so her fluffy paws stick straight out. Yuri accepts her gratefully and bundles her close for warmth. The bell on her blue collar tinkles as she gently headbutts his jaw.

Sofya is his favorite jacket, all warm and cuddly and full of purring. Every jacket should purr.

She moans.

What?

Yuri drops her to the ground and suddenly it’s not his cat, it’s JJ Leroy in front of him. On all fours, showing off his stupid fucking tattoo and wearing Sofya’s collar.

“Yuri,” says JJ, low and warm.

“Get the fuck away from me,” says Yuri.

JJ wiggles his ass. Yuri wants to kick it. He’s wearing obnoxious Canadian flag briefs because he is obnoxious and Canadian and Yuri really hopes he gets eaten by a bear.

The bell on the collar jingles as JJ blows him a kiss over his shoulder, JJ style.

“Yuri,” someone says again, far too intimate; JJ is gone and Yuri is blinking into a pillow. There are roughly 300 kilograms of hotel comforter smothering him. What the fuck.

It’s very dark in this room.

“Ah! Yuuri!” Victor’s voice floats through from the next room over.

Yuri reaches down next to the bed, grabs his shoe, and lobs it as hard as he can at the wall.

“Shut up, oh my god! Shut the fuck up! You made me dream about fucking _JJ Leroy!_ I hate you!”

Everything is blissfully quiet for a moment.

It doesn’t last.

“You dreamed about _fucking JJ?”_ Katsudon asks through the wall, and breaks into laughter. He snorts when he laughs. What the hell does Victor see in him.

Yuri snarls wordlessly and buries his head under his pillow.

 

2.

The sun is very warm and Victor’s stupid pink convertible leaves Yuri vulnerable to burning, but Katsudon insisted so they’re barrelling around Moscow with the wind in their hair.

“I want a tattoo,” says Katsudon.

Yuri thinks this is a marvelous idea. He already has a tattoo: a giant tiger on his chest. Sometimes it attacks people. It’s great.

The tiger roars from under his shirt. See? Great.

“You should get a tiger,” says Yuri.

Yuuri — _Katsudon —_ leans on the counter, which is covered in client photos and tattoo flash and a large number of watch batteries, and makes eyes at the tattoo artist.

“Nope,” says Yuri.

The tiger on Yuri’s chest jumps out and mauls the guy. Bye, tattoo artist.

He was probably up to something nefarious with the batteries.

“Hi, tiger,” says Yuuri. Katsudon. To the tiger. He pets the tiger and then he pets Yuri when the tiger goes back to sleep on his chest.

Katsu-Yuuri’s mouth tastes like tiger fur. It also tastes like rice and egg and deep fried pork. Yuri tattoos katsudon on Katsudon’s back and eats it off of him without the aid of his hands, which are occupied with holding Katsudon’s squirming shoulders still.

“Itadakimasu,” says Katsudon.

The kitchen timer goes off to tell them that the rice is done, but Yuri ate it all already. It was fucking delicious.

He wakes up in his bedroom in Lilia’s house to the beep of his phone alarm with sticky sheets and a craving for Hiroko Katsuki’s cooking.

“What the shit was that,” Yuri asks the air.

The air doesn’t answer. Sofya chirps at him from her loaf pose next to his ear.

There’s not even the excuse of overhearing someone else’s freaky sex noises this time. Everything is awful. He’s very glad that Katsudon has Nationals to compete in and will be in Japan for another two weeks, because Yuri doesn’t think he’ll be able to look at him without agonizing embarrassment and unwanted mental images of licking seasoned dashi broth from the dip of his spine for at least that long.

 

3.

“I won’t hold you to it,” says Georgi. “It wasn’t a fair wager.”

It was, though: Yuri bet he could do a pirouette on top of the Bronze Horseman’s head, and he fell into the vertical pond instead. Now he’s soaking wet and he owes Georgi his GPF gold medal. Georgi is going to steal it and hide it away in a cave somewhere and turn into Gollum. Obviously. Already, Yuri can see his eyes getting too big, his fingers too long in his gloves.

Georgi sidles closer like a fucking creeper. Yuri’s pretty sure he’s seen this porno before.

“You can give me your TV instead,” Georgi says, reaching into Yuri’s coat pocket. There’s a hole in the pocket. His long Gollum fingers go straight through and stroke over the crease of Yuri’s hip.

“Oh my god,” says Yuri. “No. Absolutely fucking not.”

The force of his denial pulls him from sleep, and he stares dead-eyed at the ceiling for the two hours until his alarm goes off rather than risk going back to whatever that hellscape was.

Eating katsudon off of Katsudon is one thing, but… Georgi. Georgi as Gollum. What the actual _fuck._

This is out of control.

When Yuri finally closes his laptop that night, he’s fourteen pages deep into a Google search of ‘how to lucid dream.’

 

4.

Yuri’s skates are covered in gore. He just chopped the head off of Stanley Tucci’s reanimated corpse.

“I always knew it would come to this.” Kenjirou is planting firecrackers like daisies in every ribcage he sees. There are a lot of ribcages. Not all of them are attached to bodies. Some of them are still moving despite this, until they explode like Roman candles in rainbow-colored sparks.

“Aren’t we supposed to be in quarantine?” Yuri asks. A goldfish floats behind Kenjirou, puffing thoughtfully on a pipe. Goldfish can’t catch the zombie virus. Kenjirou can.

A thought whispers in the back of his mind: _this might be a dream._ It goes unheeded.

“You like risks. Can you outskate a zombie?” asks Kenjirou, flipping his stupid red lock of hair back and smirking like the asshole he is.

“I can outskate _anyone,_ ” Yuri counters, and goes to prove it, but Kenjirou has him pinned against a wall and there is a sudden lack of pants. Kenjirou wraps his hand around the both of them and strokes. The goldfish watches.

Kenjirou’s arm comes off halfway through and Yuri has to finish the job, because like hell is he stopping _now._

Afterward, Kenjirou looks at him through his hair with zombie-fish eyes. He’d be a very pretty koi if his scales weren’t all sloughing off.

“Yuuri was better,” says Kenjirou.

Yuri wakes up shouting, “Better _how?_ ”

Oh.

Lucid dreaming is a bust. At least he got to kill some zombies this time.

And, uh. Get off with one.

“Son of a _bitch,”_ says Yuri, dragging his hands down his face. He wonders what it says about him that he just had a sex dream about a dead fish person.

And why did it have to be Minami? Why doesn’t his subconscious have better taste? He is disgusted at his own mind, and at his gross sheets, and at zombie-koi-Minami for having the gall to claim that Katsudon is better than Yuri at _anything._

Unacceptable.

 

5.

For the European Championships, Victor and Katsudon are in the hotel room next to Yuri’s again. Yuri had the foresight to bring earplugs this time. He makes sure to put them in before he lays down.

They don’t help.

“Come watch this video,” says Christophe. He holds out his phone in one hand as Victor and Yuri skate closer; it shows a closeup of someone’s hand strumming an acoustic guitar. Short nails on square fingertips, a worn hemp bracelet, and the dark recess of the interior of the instrument caged by silver strings.

The phone screen grows in Christophe's hand until it's large enough to swallow the three of them.

It’s dark inside the guitar. Yuri sinks down to the bottom, slow and floaty like he’s underwater, until he feels the gentle hill of wood curving under his shoulders. Victor and Christophe settle next to him. Victor leans sideways on his elbow and flicks one wingtip, indolent.

Of course his wings are gold. Pretentious asshole.

“Yuri,” says Victor, drawn out and lilting. He cups Yuri’s jaw in one hand and sticks his thumb in Yuri’s mouth.

“Victor,” replies Christophe, settling over the both of them like a giant feathery blanket to lick at Victor’s neck. His wing is poking Yuri in the face.

Yuri bites it. Christophe moans.

“You fucking weirdo,” says Yuri around a mouthful of down. “Stop that.”

Victor hums. His hair tickles where it brushes over Yuri’s stomach. “Mmm, Yuri.”

“Victor, ah—”

Yuri startles awake to the sound of a massive crash and a squeal that sounds like Victor’s. He sits straight up in bed, instantly alert.

It’s dark as hell in this room. There's a disorienting moment of deja vu — hasn’t he woken up just like this before? This comforter is made of lead.

The clock on the nightstand reads 12:19. Yuri half expects there to be feathers in his mouth and feels strangely bereft to find them absent.

He hates his brain.

He channels his anger into viciously ripping out his earplugs; they’re not doing a thing, anyway, so what’s the fucking point? His dreams were still invaded by Victor and Katsudon’s stupid sex noises. Why. Why is this his life.

“We’re fine!” Katsudon calls in a wavering voice. He might be laughing, but it’s a little too muffled to tell. “Victor, ah, broke the bed.”

Yeah, he’s definitely laughing.

 _I give up,_ Yuri thinks, fatalistic. _This is bullshit and I give up. Bring on the crazy angel threesomes. Whatever._

At least Georgi wasn’t in this one. He’ll be thankful for the little things because they’re all he’s got going for him.

 

+1.

Yuri doesn’t remember a whole lot of the dream he just woke from besides a landscape of warm skin and dark hair between his fingers and a mouth he could drown in, but he knows exactly whose undercut he was tugging at. He’s reasonably sure dream-Otabek had a mechanical arm; his lips hold a sense memory of kissing scar tissue around metal.

Finally, a dream that _doesn’t_ make him long for the sweet oblivion of spontaneous combustion. Dare he say it, a _good_ dream. He doesn’t want to open his eyes.

He does anyway, because Yuri is many things but he is not one to deny reality.

Unexpectedly, Otabek remains warm and solid all along his front. That’s nice. That’s _really_ nice. They must have fallen asleep during the movie last night.

“Yuri,” Otabek says. Breathes. His eyes are still closed and his voice is slurred and his hips move, just a little, against Yuri’s. Yuri is suddenly very aware of how hard they are. Both of them. Because they’re pressed right up against each other, legs woven together in a Gordian knot, and how the hell did _that_ happen?

Yuri tries to bury his face in the pillow and ends up burying his face in Otabek’s collarbone instead.

Otabek hums and slurs Yuri's name again, his thighs tightening around Yuri's, and oh fuck, _Otabek_ is dreaming this time. About _him._

That's… actually very exciting. Gratifying.

Or it would be, but Yuri’s had a sex dream about katsudon — not in a metaphorical way, _actual katsudon,_ deep fried pork and all — so he knows better than most that dreams can’t be trusted as indicators of waking emotional states.

God, he _hopes_ Otabek thinks about him like that.

Otabek murmurs against his temple, a phrase that sounds like ‘get in the cab’ and then something about spiders.

Then, very clearly and very flat: “Yuri, why do you have so many legs.”

Oh, fuck everything. The terrible dreams are _contagious._


End file.
